Clark Swann
by julzbobbibroun
Summary: In what world would Superman not have a secret identity? The Marvelverse, of course!
1. Chapter One

**Clark Swann**

_In what world would Superman not have a secret identity? The Marvelverse, of course!_

Disclaimer: ...

Pairings: Jane/Thor, Clark/wait and see (obvious hint – I've majorly girl crushed on Gal Gadot since witnessing her badassery in _Fast Five_ and _Fast & Furious 6_ but I hope this fulfils some, now, impossible Diana fantasies).

Warning: Why, yes. Yes, I am aware that I have stolen random stuff from random places. Please bear with me on the irrelevant influence that has made its way into this. I'm palette cleaning from a _Gossip Girl_/_Gilmore Girls_ crossover.

Rudimentary. Gets to the point. Not flowery or well written. Deal with it.

Notes: Stuff will be unrecognisable. Ripping pages of cannon and continuity. Papier-mâchéing them into something entirely new. Trying to account for as many fallen domino tracks as I can.

I'm sticking with _Smallville_ characters and events on the Marvel spectrum as much as possible. I love the mixing and mashing of different universes, but with the addition of the MCU I'd go ballistic if I chucked more DC in. Batman, Bruce Wayne, my dear beloved is too big of a monkey wrench to include. Heartbreaking, I know. If they weren't in the _Smallville_ series (no comic continuity), they probably won't exist.

Entire MCU to a lesser extent. For now.

* * *

><p>It was dark. Two physicists were in a van, travelling through the New Mexico desert. They were being driven by Jane Foster's poli-sci intern, Darcy Lewis. They were there to conduct research on an aurora-borealis-type phenomenon, which Jane was recording on her video camera out a cracked open side. She had ordered Darcy to speed towards the lightning storm ahead.<p>

Jane was chuckling at the right place, right time good fortune as a forceful tunnel of twisting air had shot towards the ground. There was whipping and whistling and crashing and thundering. A tornado that appeared from nowhere had slammed out of the otherworldly light which penetrated a portion of the twinkle speckled ink up above.

Darcy wasn't keen to continue battling against the swirling, dusty maelstrom that had threatened to throw them in the direction of the nearest ambulance. "I am not dying for six college credits!"

"What if I take Clark up on his offer?" Jane reasoned as she awkwardly fought to take charge of the steering wheel from the passenger's side.

"You're going to start paying me with actual currency-like money?" she laughed sarcastically. "Like I don't know that's an empty promise."

Their four-wheel drive had hit a humanoid figure. The breaks were slammed and the vehicle had spun from the abrupt cease of motion. They had smacked somebody to the ground, unconscious. Whoever it was, they had cracked a spider's web of fissures on the car window.

* * *

><p>Clark Swann sat in his top level office at Swann Technology And Research Labs. He had headed the secondary central branch in New York City since his return.<p>

S.T.A.R. Labs was the world's foremost research facility. It had carried a chain of advanced laboratories devoted to scientific study that were unconnected to government agendas and business interests. It was a company that had been founded by Clark's late father. The brilliant, kind and courageous Dr Virgil Swann.

Some people still gave Clark funny looks every day he showed up at the glass, steel and cement fortress in Morningside Heights. They had questioned his ability to work there, let alone run the place. He was an alumnus of Ivy University, which was a mightily impressive feat. And he had graduated summa cum laude. But he wasn't a PhD. He hadn't so much as applied for any form of grad school (not that he had actually required formal education beyond Swann-style homeschooling...). Clark was a 'Mister' not a 'Doctor'. He had spent the two years after Dr Swann's sudden death totally off the grid, unseen or heard from the entire time. Many colleagues were unsure with what to make of his presence.

However, there were those who had been perfectly aware that Clark was more than capable of performing his day job. Despite his comparatively primitive academic credentials. They were the ones who'd had the pleasure of personally working alongside of him. He'd joined in on discussion and debate since he could talk. He'd tinkered and tested since he could walk.

Garrison Slate, a fellow scientist and lifelong friend of his father's, had counted himself among them – the most memorable occasion, being when the young Mr Swann had needed to provide Belle Reve Sanitarium with the means to contain his (_cough_, legally legitimate shotgun wife, _cough_) college girlfriend for extensive psychotherapy. Dr Slate had succeeded Dr Swann as the president of S.T.A.R. Labs two decades ago. He had known Clark since he was a boy. And a kind-hearted, endlessly optimistic, precociously bright boy, he was. Now that Clark Swann was a man, the world would be better served to watch out. He was going to do extraordinary things. Garrison was sure of it.

* * *

><p>They were at their outpost in the small town of Puente Antiguo. Jane, Darcy and Erik Selvig were discussing the magnetic storm they had encountered. They were surrounded by an organised clutter of electronic equipment. Most of it was modified or made from scratch by Jane, herself. A lot of it, built with the aid of a friend. Her best friend.<p>

"A what?" Darcy asked.

Erik mumbled, "I thought you were a science major."

"Political science," she unashamedly corrected.

"She was the only applicant," said Jane.

"And _she_ has connections to a U.S. Senator."

Erik had realised who she was referring to. "Mr Swann." He nodded.

* * *

><p>Clark was on the phone with his mother. He hadn't gotten to see her much since he'd returned to civilisation. She'd seamlessly made the United States Senate transition after her second term as the New York State Senator had wrapped. She had relocated to Washington, D.C. as a result.<p>

Martha Swann had made the leap from university professor to state politician when her youngest had graduated from the Veritas School in the city and left for college. Her husband had started to spend more and more time in solitary isolation, shutting himself in the back room of his planetarium. Their daughter was occupied with various endeavours overseas – degree collecting, art amassing and amateur equestrianism.

Patricia wasn't recognised for being the eldest child of the brilliant Virgil Swann and New York City's prominent Clark family, alone. She was known for her show jumping skills as well as her humanitarian work, too. Internationally competing on the equestrian circuit had come to an end, for the most part. Her philanthropic deeds had turned into a full-time job subsequent to earning her umpteenth postgraduate degree in social sciences (so there was, at least, one Dr Swann still alive and kicking). Martha had handed over her Carter Foundation chairwomanship to the next generation upon leaving the U.S. Senate election unanimously victorious.

In the spring of 2009, Virgil had passed away. Clark had graduated at the top of his class in Ivy Town shortly before the tragedy and left not long afterwards. It was during this period of despair that Martha had decided to make herself busy. Busier than she already was. She was deeply affected by the loss of her quirky, kind and compassionate husband. She didn't want her day to day actions to become decimated by grief.

Senator Swann had held her current position in American government – doing what she was able to keep her family safe and make the nation a better place – for nearly two years. Sometimes, she had wondered whether her sharp talents and diplomatic nature would've been better utilised on a more global scale. Perhaps, in the United Nations.

It was high tide for Martha to bid adieu to her son. She had a closed meeting with the U.S. Secretary of Defence this afternoon. The whole clandestine ordeal was being treated hush-hush, especially secretive. She'd wasted hours the past fortnight, pondering what Alexander Pierce had wanted from her. Favours were essentially currency in the District of Columbia. They hadn't had enough interaction for anything to be owed by either party. She was incredibly intrigued in regard to his intentions.

* * *

><p>Erik, Darcy and Jane had climbed into the four-wheeler. They had backpedalled to the hospital post-haste to question the well-built man they'd left with scrambling orderlies hours earlier. All they had found was a tangle of empty restraints and an unoccupied bed.<p>

Jane was verbally berating herself for losing her most important piece of evidence. She was determined to find the guy they'd suspected had arrived in through what could very well have been a wormhole. Erik was hesitant because of what the brutish, blonde giant had proven capable of in there. Jane had refused to give up. Planning to look all over New Mexico if she had to, she'd turned on the ignition and reversed. The van had accidentally hit an unsuspecting Thor. Again.

"I'm so sorry," cried Jane, jumping out and onto the ground. "I swear, I'm not doing this on purpose."

"Don't worry. You're not the first guy she's hit," her intern said flippantly.

"What are you talking about, Darcy? Yes he is."

"One time, when Clark was visiting Culver, I asked him how you guys first met." Darcy wore a cheeky grin.

Jane exasperatedly shook her head. "And Clark Swann never lies... I don't know what the big deal is. It was a bicycle! Very different to an automobile."

* * *

><p><em>It was windy fall day New York City, 1999. Clark was on his way home from lacrosse practice. His 'sapphire' pinkie ring had been taken off the chain he wore around his neck at training. It was back on his finger. He had missed the last bus for a while. He'd just walk home through the park. Blue Kryptonite ring or not, it took a lot to wear him out.<em>

_Clark was lost in thought when he was clipped by a bicycle. He had fallen to the ground and grazed his chin. Great. He couldn't remove the stone until the mark had completely healed. An estimated week with a Veritas course load completed at human speed. Wonderful. __He couldn't risk an abnormally speedy recovery. There was already his suspiciously non-existent list of illness and injury._

_Annoyances aside, Clark was more concerned for the person who had ridden into him. He had hoped they weren't hurt. Soft brown eyes that were hidden under a stray curtain of silky brown hair had looked up at him. As he had stood and brushed himself off, the girl hadn't gotten up._

_He'd soon learn that this pretty girl's name was Jane Foster, after helping her off the pavement. This was the day that Clark Swann had met his best friend._

* * *

><p>It was early evening. Clark had finished up at work but didn't return to his family's townhouse – still conventionally called 'Clark Manor' by the doggedly traditional Upper East Side natives – on Fifth Avenue. He had stayed on the half of Manhattan closest to the Hudson. He went from the Academic Acropolis, down to the northwest corner of De Witt Clinton Park. He was headed to the serenely quiet, sequestered space his father had routinely frequented before an untimely death.<p>

The New York Planetarium had become somewhat of a crutch for Clark Swann. After his dad had died, he'd run to the Arctic to further explore his origins. His father had told him about the five-sided crystal hidden inside of a secret vault at the observatory in his final days. He had been able to switch off his emotions throughout the Kryptonian training. It was almost terrifying, how easy it was for him to let nothing but detached rationalism take control. He hadn't grieved for the loss of the man that was greater than life, even when reduced to the confines of human frailty in a wheelchair. Not until returning home.

The planetarium had made him feel closer to his father. His adoptive father. But his real father, nonetheless. Virgil Swann resolutely took in the child that came to Earth amid the hail of fire that had caused his quadriplegia. He and his wife had raised him, taught him, loved him. He was gone forever and Clark had finally allowed himself to feel that. It had been months of delayed mourning. He wasn't sure if he'd ever get over it. He should have ripped that bandaid straight away. Efficiently fast. Quickly and cleanly. He had waited too long. The ache that he'd allowed to catch up to him had exploded in relentless waves which were taking their sweet time, quelling on their own.

Clark had slowly entered the back room that his father used to occupy. Cautiously, until he'd utilised his superhuman hearing. He dropped his guard. He had recognised the uninvited intruder's heartbeat. It was steady. Tirelessly disciplined.

"Superhearing, Oliver," Clark suspired.

A jovial voice rang out from the figure in the verdant costume, waiting for him in the shadows. "So, I take it we're skipping over the whole, 'Hello, good to see you again!' part of the conversation."

"You're the one lurking in the shadows, Queen." He cracked a smile. "But I suppose it is – good to see you again, I mean. It's been a while."

Oliver walked into the light that Clark had just turned on. He had lowered his green leather hood and grinned.

"Yeah, well, it's getting a little crowded for heroics in California. The government should just get it over with and rename the Golden State 'Anthonia' or 'Starkansas', already."

"Are you in my hometown to pickpocket any more billionaires?"

"Don't worry, Swann," Oliver placated. "Just the shady ones."

Clark shook his head. "You really think it's right to steal, as long as it goes to a good cause?"

"If the ends justify the means? Absolutely, yes," he firmly stated.

"I'll never feel that way," said Clark with just as much self-assurance. "Oliver, I admire the way you seek justice for corporate villainy, but there's a whole world of people out there. They need us. With your potential, you shouldn't limit yourself to the Robin Hood act, alone."

"This again?" Oliver had planted himself atop a neat stack of painfully thick, frighteningly large texts. "Seriously?" He sounded as if his old friend's old spiel was a total joke. "Come on, Clark. You have abilities I couldn't even dream of. I can't exactly zip halfway around the world at a moment's notice."

"Doesn't mean the Green Arrow is unable to make any more of a difference," Clark countered, sincerity and conviction reverberating loudly.

Oliver was standing again. He strode over to Clark and patted him on the arm of his black, bespoke jacket. "I think you're taking the whole neighbourhood watch thing a bit too seriously, boyscout."

* * *

><p><span>AN: When thinking of Garrison Slate, I picture a Nolanverse Lucius Fox/_Arrow_ Walter Steele/_Bones_ Daniel Goodman tribrid.


	2. Chapter Two

Jane had provided Thor with clothing that wasn't the drab mint garb he'd escaped from the hospital in. He'd changed but he hadn't put the shirt on yet. He wasn't remotely uncomfortable with walking around a scientific outpost in the middle of the desert half-naked. Jane had actively avoided the show. Darcy hid no shame about how much she had enjoyed it.

"You know, for a crazy homeless person, he's pretty cut," she said, her bespectacled eyes keenly following his muscular frame. "As impressive as your big, blue boyscout."

"Clark isn't _my_ boyscout," lightly reprimanded Jane.

"Didn't you guys date?"

"Yeah. In _high school_."

* * *

><p><em>Approximately two years of friendship later, Jane Foster and Clark Swann had experienced their first relationship. With each other.<em>

_It was everything that a high school romance should've been. Not an epic, heartbreaking saga. There were no awkward, done to death love triangles including unrequited pining and at least one point which was frustratingly oblivious the entire time. There was a small fight or several down the road, sure. They'd had teenage hormones kicking their emotions into overdriven extremes, after all. And it had taken Clark a while to be completely truthful, to... open up about himself._

_Looking back, there was nothing to regret. It was sweet and it was simple. It was unfussy and it was fun. What they had was an impeccable high school career capped off with a prime example of puppy love. Sadly, what these high school sweethearts had wasn't meant to last. On the upside, they had come away from it with a lasting friendship._

* * *

><p>"Sorry I tased you," Darcy called across the room.<p>

A still shirtless Thor had wandered out of the bathroom. He'd picked up a scientific gadget with loose wires. Jane had rushed over to stop him.

"Excuse me." Unprepared, she ran with her notebook half open. Its front cover was now haphazardly folded and had creased. "Excuse me!" She snatched the device that he had handled with curiosity. She was standing directly in front of Thor. An objectively broad-chested, well-defined Thor. Yes. Objective, indeed.

"Ah." Jane looked down and felt like a silly schoolgirl again, averting another set of sparkly baby blues belonging to a pleasing face at the pinnacle of a god-like body. She wanted to bury her nose in her notes and have it stay there. "Um." But she couldn't act like a child. She had to remain professional.

Thor inspected the t-shirt he was about to put on. He had noticed something out of place. He had pointed the oddity out to Jane. "What is this?"

Her eyes bugged out. "Oh." She tore the nametag off the black shirt. "My ex. Good with patients and bad with relationships." She had avoided eye contact and almost let out an uncomfortable chuckle whilst saying this.

"This does not say the Son of Swann of which you spoke."

Jane's face had momentarily scrunched with confusion. "Son of Sw– what? Oh, you mean Clark. No. Not him. We're just friends. Actually, Clark was the person who introduced us."

* * *

><p><em>The bookish <em>_dormice __they'd been at the Veritas School, Clark and Jane had agreed that they wanted to have the full college experience. That meant there was a particular ritual they had to partake in. Spring break. Preferably, in Florida._

_Jane had convinced her rather aloof, hyper-conservative roommate to join them. It had taken a lot of time and patience for her to open up. She had thought of her as unkindly stuck up for a while. Jane wasn't the happiest college dorm camper for the first month at Culver. She hadn't needed another Shay in her life. It had turned out that Alicia Baker was simply very sheltered and very private – precisely __akin to her best friend when she'd first met him in middle school__. She was a reticent, cautious person. She was actually very nice._

_Clark had brought two new buddies he'd made at Ivy University. He'd never had many friends. He had been homeschooled by his father until seventh grade and was rather shy. He was the smart and athletic kid who had won a well-balanced, all-rounder collection of awards but didn't really talk to anyone. Not often. Not until Jane._

_It took an ice breaker such as a bicycle-induced scrape for him to become close to somebody that he hadn't already known his entire life. Clark had slowly and steadily built on his self-assurance during high school. He had really come into his own without his relatives, his family friends and his best-friend/turned-girlfriend/turned-ex-but-still-best-friend as a safety net he'd always been able to keep a weather eye on._

_Clark had road tripped to Miami with his roommate and a guy __he'd befriended playing varsity lacrosse at Ivy. __There was the science major that had seemed unable to tell time. He was light-hearted and humble to the point of self-depreciation and ridiculously nice__. He was the dorm roomie. And then there was the pre-med female fantasy who, in essence, had it all. Charisma and confidence. Brains and brawn. Textbook good looks. His name was Donald Blake. He had the whole package and what girl wouldn't fall for that?_

* * *

><p>"This mortal form has grown weak. I need sustenance."<p>

Darcy was on her laptop. She was browsing gossip sites when Thor had felt the necessity to proclaim his hunger to the entire room. "...and here was me thinking he'd be a monk forever." Darcy had paid no attention to the random outburst. "Aside from the whole, you know, quickie Vegas marriage thing when you guys were my age," went her unapologetic word vomit. "Hah! Oh my god! If you think about it, Clark's kinda technically a widower."

Darcy had stumbled upon an interesting article. She'd motioned for Jane to join her when she had finished laughing. "Hey, Jane! Come, look at this."

Jane walked over to Darcy. She had bent over her shoulder to scan the screen. "Billionaire Boys Out On Town." She'd glanced at picture uninterestedly before recognising Clark. "Oh. Well, that's new." She saw paparazzo snapped pictures of Clark. He was obviously drunk. "And _that's_ odd," she said to herself quietly.

Needing to know the meaning of this, Jane had continued her perusal of the pointless page. She'd found herself reading a logical explanation. There was a caption written that had mentioned the return of Clark Swann's signature 'sapphire' pinkie ring. "Or, maybe, not so much." The masses truly cared about every stupid little thing concerning people of prominence and their offspring. But thank the universe they did, this time, right? Clark Swann: intoxicated? She was ready to flip out.

For some annoying and unquantifiable reason, Jane had trouble tearing herself away from tattler trash once she'd set her eyes on it. Feminists probably wouldn't have appreciated the cursing in her head at the moment, but damn those naturally irresistible female instincts for this kind of crap. She had skimmed the rest of the article. "I love how _factual_ tabloids always are."

"Yeah. No way would C.K. ever be bold enough to go for a supermodel." Darcy could always be counted on to add her own two cents. "Says he went home named Jac Jet."

"He's never exactly been one for jumping the velvet ropes at nightclubs." Jane had taken charge of the laptop. She had scrolled through the remainder of the intrusive images that depicted an allegedly hammered S.T.A.R. Labs heir apparent. She saw an old family friend of the Swanns in many of the same shots. She had pointed at the chiselled-featured, spiky-haired blonde. "But at least now we know why he did."

* * *

><p><em>Hours ago, Oliver was dragging a reluctant Clark away from the observatory eyesore he had planned to spend his night in. The Rainforest Preservation Foundation had hired out a club a few streets south of their position to host an event. They were both invited but Clark had not planned to attend. He hadn't been out and about since he'd come back to the States. Aside from his daily trek to S.T.A.R. Labs, people rarely saw him. He had returned to his old life with a more work, less play mentality. Not that he had frequented the<em>_ playing scene in the first place. He was a fan of his solitude. Oliver, on the other hand of an entirely different deck, was enough of a player for everyone._

_Oliver Queen was a charming man. He was a convincing guy. He had successfully coerced Clark into zipping home for his blue K ring. It was their philanthropic duty to go and enjoy themselves and bring home beautiful women. The planet had needed them. South America's delicate ecosystem had needed them. More importantly, Clark was needy too. He needed to lighten up. He needed to relax for once. He needed to remove the glowing chunk of green space rock __that was always wedged up his overdeveloped sense of responsibility._

_Clark had vanished after his father's funeral. It was near a year until Oliver saw him again. Even then, h__e hadn't seen much of him since East Asia. He had discovered that Virgil and Martha Swann's boy was an intergalactic superbeing that day. They had crossed paths – coincidentally, both – lending a hand to someone who had gotten into a tough spot sinking an illegal whaler._

_Apparently, Clark had already met the almost-but-not-quite as attractive beach head they'd saved from getting his scaly butt filleted. There were mentions of spring break and an elevator and the reason why Virgil's son had polluted the scandal sheets the summer before his sophomore year at college in their greeting conversation._

_Oliver was overseas for Queen Industries that week in '09. __He had happened upon the dangerous situation off the coast of Japan by the great white __sea canary __of chances. __The itinerary for tonight in _The City That Never Sleeps_, however, was more of the premeditated variety._

_"__Marquee, Oliver?" Clark disbelievingly scoffed. "I thought this was for charity."_

_He shrugged. "The Rainforest Preservation Foundation is probably just aiming for the expendable money clips of a younger crowd. Put enough booze in them, and–"_

_"–__I get it." He had sounded defeated. "I concede. It's an intelligent idea."_

_The renowned Star City playboy and the reserved son of Virgil Swann were blocked from the hopping hotspot by a frenzied barrage of flashing lights and shouted commentary. Clark had squirmed uncomfortably and grimaced. A scantily clad, over-polished parade of prancing movers and shakers that actually liked being in the public eye had airily passed them after suitably preening and posing for the cameras._

_"__So, it turns out global warming's just another excuse to take your clothes off," Clark remarked._

_"__I know what it looks like, man, but they do raise a ton of cash for a good cause."_

_The slimeballs of photojournalism wouldn't let them pass._

_"__Come on, smile, Clark. Give them a good shot. That way..." Oliver swirled and swigged an imaginary beverage in an invisible stemmed glass, "...we can start the better part of this evening." He had winked at a stunning woman with an exotic tan and a cascading waterfall of crisp sausage curls._

_The reigning Miss July had returned Oliver's wink. She had strutted towards them on six inches of sharp-looking suffering. "Ollie!" She had widely smiled and effusively hugged her favourite ongoing casual Friday. She'd spied another handsome man over his solid shoulder. "Who's your friend?"_

_"__This is Clark." Oliver had made the introductory hand gestures, __amusedly __looking back and forth between them. "Clark, this is the lovely Miss Adrianna Kottmeier."_

_Adrianna had waved over an acquaintance of her own. "Well, this is my friend – Jac Jet."_

_Both girls were __mouth-wateringly __attractive. And they had shown up tonight wearing very little. Pink had noticeably tinged Clark's transparent face since Adrianna had decided to stick around on the velvet-roped sidewalk. He probably would have been reduced to fire truck red when Jac sashayed onto the scene, had he picked up Oliver's personal reading habits. She was last June's mind-bendingly flexible _Maxim_ cover._

* * *

><p>Kryptonian physiology was a Raosend. Clark was bright eyed and bushytailed for work in a few hours with the removal of a radiated Sunstone ring. It was only a recent development that he had felt comfortable enough with his differences and his origins to be wholly and solely himself in public. In a manner of speaking. He was no longer compelled to fit in to a desperate degree.<p>

From the moment that his father had taught him about the crystal meteorite components, – that had travelled galaxies alongside of his spaceship to angrily rain down on a modest farming community in Kansas – he had happily found a way to be normal. Well, _more_ normal. Unaffected by the rays of a yellow sun, Virgil Swann had theorised and, then, proven that his son's unique physiology prevailed as vastly different from the anatomy of a human being. It was denser and contained a number of alien organs. It was superior, for sure. It just wasn't _super_.

Clark liked the normalcy that blue Kryptonite (as his dad had appropriately named it) afforded him. When he began attending a real school, it'd allowed him to play the sports that his parents had permitted Patty's boyfriend to teach an ecstatic eleven year-old on weekends. That was around the time the blue K had entered his everyday sphere.

His dad was definitely smart. Astute beyond intellectual acumen. Virgil had hesitated from introducing the rainbow of meteor remnants for a very good reason. He had known that his son craved a mundane, commonplace existence. Clark had to have an exemplary handle on his otherworldly abilities before giving him the means to temporarily eliminate them. He had to understand and accept himself for who he was, first. He had to be humbly but gladly grateful for his superpowers. He did and he was, somewhat.

Clark had reached a place where he embraced his Kryptonian roots almost as much as the humanity he'd been raised in. The feelings about his heritage on both sides of the coin; both nature and nurture was close to achieving symbiotic equality. They were largely helped by the artificial intelligence and the alien technology contained within the Kryptonian Crystal of Knowledge that came from his spaceship. They were just not quite a hundred percent racing to the finish line at a synchronised pace.


	3. Chapter Three

A/N: This isn't supposed to be some grandly written masterpiece full of imagination and inventiveness yet realistic realism. If this fic was, it could easily become the story that's never finished. I'm neurotic, that way. This is just something I'm quickly spitballing to get out of my system. I have no qualms with anyone who wants to take bits and pieces of this for themselves and make it their own.

Oh, and warning – italicised cop out up ahead in the form of a blonde.

* * *

><p>A motley, mismatched bunch was seated at the same table in Isabel's Diner. Jane was spewing question after question, with Darcy cruising not far behind her. Thor had repeatedly shoved overspilling mouthfuls into his system ravenously. Erik was watching whilst expressing a mix of unhidden disbelief, curiosity and concern.<p>

"How'd you get inside that cloud?"

"Also, how could you eat an entire box of Pop Tarts and still be this hungry?" Darcy nonchalantly added. "His pit is nearly as bottomless as Clark's."

Thor had eventually lessened his pace enough to respond to the polite but probing inquisition. "This 'Clark', you speak of him often. Why?"

"He's always around... he's Jane's best friend... and he's stupid hot!"

Jane was tempted to literally facepalm. "'Stupid hot'? Really, Darcy?"

"Well, it's true. You must've gone crazy when you broke up with him."

"It was mutual. And, hey, _I'm_ not the psycho ex who went crazy on Clark Swann."

* * *

><p><em>It had started in a malfunctioning elevator during the spring break of 2005. It had ended in a specialised chamber at a mental institution months later.<em>

_Clark was quite smitten when he had met Alicia. He fell head over heels for her when he'd found out that they'd had so much in common. Their short, intense relationship had made him prone to wearing stupidly massive grins. In the beginning._

_Alicia was the first metahuman that Clark had ever met. She could disappear and reappear in a haze of distorted air – like the psychedelic heatwaves that wafted off metallic surfaces throughout especially sweltering summers – with a thought. She had really liked him too. He was... incredibly... Clark-like._

_They were both different. She had spent her life protecting herself by emanating uptight inapproachability. He was used to hiding behind his naturally inhibited demeanour. They had bonded because of their consequentially unprecedented experiences. She, disturbingly, had wanted to bond with him a tad too much._

_Alicia hadn't __possessed__ the understanding family or had any of the friends that Clark did, growing up. She'd had a boyfriend once, but that hadn't gone well. __She had sought eighteen years of withheld, neglected affection from one person: Clark Swann._

_In a nutshell, she went nuts. She had wanted him all to herself. She'd tried to kill Jane, who had embarked on her own post-high school romance with Donald. She was obsessed with him. She had drugged and married him in Las Vegas. Meanwhile, he'd disappointed his parents and given the press a field day because he had idiotically decided to trust her too soon._

_Alicia was kept in a medically induced coma while S.T.A.R. Labs had developed the means to contain her. Clark may have helped to speed up their progress. She had killed herself in the struggle to escape. He had rarely ventured beyond a third date in six years. There were two exceptions that stood out. There was one on a sojourn in the Cyclades. The other was upon his Manhattan homecoming. But neither had ended with happily ever afters, either._

* * *

><p>Oliver wasn't as lucky as Clark in the morning. He was sleeping off an excess of vintage Moët in a guest room at a historic Fifth Avenue mansion with Adrianna at his side and Jac, also lost to the lull of dreamland, across the narrow hall. The Swann townhouse was a meticulously maintained Manhattan pre-war that had made up for its mere twenty-seven foot width by being eight-stories high. The visitors had taken to bedrooms on the second floor after stumbling through the proud pairs of foyer doors. There was no elevator and walking far had equalled exceptionally bad at that hour.<p>

The brass Brauer timepiece on the antique nightstand showed that it had passed midday. None of the three slumbering occupants had so much as remotely stirred.

Oliver's skull was invaded by an army of maniacal elves that were equipped with hammers, clackers, whistles and bells. Up was down. Left was right. It had become possible for him to be looking at a headachingly fast and colourful vortex with his eyes closed. At least he held his liquor well enough to never have needed to shack up with a toilet bowl.

The evil little elves had marched his cerebrum carrying a stereo, too. A stereo that was jammed, stuck replaying _Tub Thumping_ for ten minutes. It had taken ten minutes for Oliver to stretch beyond the warmth of the Pratesi comforter and blindly search for his Q-Phone. Adrianna had buried herself deeper into the Hästens horse hair because of the unwelcome disturbance.

"I hate you," Oliver groaned into the mouthpiece. His scrunched lids were screwed shut over his pounding sockets. Could eyeballs even vibrate, he would've asked himself if not for the repentant pain. He was unable to remember whether the curtains were closed before passing out.

"I wasn't the one who wanted to after-party in every borough."

Swann's voice was irritatingly cheerful, in Oliver's rather pissed opinion. He had felt the need to elaborate, "I still hate you."

"You're _still_ in bed?" Clark had heard the faint yet gravelly brokenness in his notes.

"I reckoned Briar Rose got something right," he childishly whined. "Sue me."

* * *

><p>Thor had finished every drop of coffee in his cup with a large gulp. "This drink. I like it."<p>

"I know. It's great, right?" Darcy enthusiastically agreed. It was difficult to tell if she was good-humouredly talking down to him or being serious. "You know, at the pace you consume things, you and Clark could be one and the same."

"Another!" Thor had smashed his mug on the floor.

There was involuntary wincing and clenching and jumping in seats. The diner's elderly owner and the other patrons had turned to stare.

"Sorry, Izzy..."

Darcy had pursed her lips. "With the exclusion of his freakishly impeccable table manners."

"Yeah, well, not everyone grew up in New York high society," Jane had to remark after excusing Thor's strange and unseemly disturbance.

* * *

><p><em>A stunning fifteen year-old with dark skin and darker hair had menacingly crossed her arms and blocked the portrait-lined corridor. "Well, look who it is, girls. Plain Brain Jane."<em>

_"What do you want, Shay?" Jane asked in a tiff. She would have seemed as if she'd grown a backbone, except she'd stared at the chequered stone beneath her inappropriately non-designer Mary Janes from Target._

_"That's Miss Veritas to you, Foster."_

_Shay and her merry band of mean girls were the bane of Jane's existence since she had received a one-in-a-whole-lot-of-million scholarship to New York City's internationally esteemed Veritas School. She had to have known it was too good to be true. She had to know that there would have been some price to pay for the best education in the world._

_Three-quarters of Veritas students took crosstown busses through Central Park each morning. It wasn't just Upper East Side society spawn that had graced the marble-floored, walnut-panelled hallowed halls of this particular preparatory school. It was extremely exclusive in a scholastic sense. The kids had practically needed to have chosen what they planned to write their dissertations on before finishing their freshman year._

_Many had hailed from neck-paining supertalls and expensive Midtown co-ops. Several stayed in the consulates that tended to be spread in concentration over the right side of the crowded island. A percentage hadn't needed to catch anything more than a quick cab ride, residents of the Upper West. And then there was that twenty-five percent which __– were from out of town but not minded by some sort of nanny/valet/butler/handler escort combination, and __– __boarded on campus._

_The Veritas School had prided itself on having the most rigorous academic regimen in the western world. It wasn't exclusive to old money, newly minted billionaires, children of Nobel laureates and relations of high-ranking diplomats. It had sought out the best of the brightest. Jane Foster was over the moon to have counted herself amongst them. But the well-deserved title had come at a cost._

_The reigning and ruling cliques at Veritas were incredibly interesting from an anthropological point of view. Utterly unique from typical teenage-dwelling environments. They were not as fascinating when being victimised by them. Although academic achievement had ruled above all else, there was Shay Veritas._

_She was consistently at the top of her year until Jane Foster had been sponsored by some Culver University professors (which were, also, required to be Veritas alumni in order to do so) and transferred. She could have hated Clark Swann, too, when he'd enrolled. But he was far too dreamy to dislike. He was way too cute to bully._

_Clark was a ridiculously gorgeous hunk of male that it was necessary to remain on good terms with. He was an Upper East Side Clark in addition to bearing the __incomparable __shadow of Virgil Swann. And, he was sort of her neighbour. Their families had lived on the same block of Museum Mile. Hers were the inflexibly immovable, longstanding residents of 998 Fifth Avenue's ninth floor. His ancestors had nested in the Clark Manor House since it was erected in the Gilded Age._

_In conclusion, it was just Jane who had been relegated to ruthless squashing under the Ferragamo heels of her frustrations. Shay was the – several mouthfuls of 'great' – granddaughter of the Veritas School founder. She had dealt with immense pressures at home because of that. She had hated that somebody was getting better grades than her. She had absolutely loathed Jane Foster._

* * *

><p>"You want to us to build a facility located not far from the centre of the Earth?"<p>

"Yes."

A condescending sigh had issued after the rolling of bright cerulean eyes. "Your request to present to the board is denied, Dr Veritas. Apologies."

'You are not apologetic whatsoever, you grudge-bearing ass' was what Shay had wanted to say. She had seriously wanted to smack the dispassionate boredom off of Clark Swann's irritatingly handsome face with her folders of data and research. Extensive piles of print which proved beyond any calculable doubt that green-lighting her grant was the smartest move. But she had to grin and bear the ultimate decision.

'Optimum fuerit ex duabus clarissimis' was the family motto. The phrase was engraved onto the Veritas School crest. 'Best of the brightest' had been her mantra from the womb. That was where Shay had to work. S.T.A.R. Labs: the best of the brightest. Her job at the best of the brightest had exceedingly sucked for the last year. The Swann scion was no longer AWOL. The best friend of the girl she had verbally abused every single day in school her boss now. Karma could not have been more of a bitch.

* * *

><p>The untalkative men in black had stolen every large and lit doohickie to every minute and unimpressively minuscule scrap Jane hauled with her to New Mexico. She, Darcy and Erik had dejectedly seated themselves on the flat roof's edge of their building.<p>

"Years of research, gone."

"They even took my Q-Pod."

Erik was obstinate to find a sliver of hope. "What about the backups?"

"They took our backups. They took the backups of our backups," said a dejected Jane. "They were extremely thorough."

"Just downloaded, like, thirty songs onto there," Darcy had to point out.

"Could you please stop with your Q-Pod!" The wind had relentlessly whipped Jane's fine hair across her preoccupied pensiveness. It was nowhere near as much of an annoyance as what she had felt for S.H.I.E.L.D. Anger and irritation had steamed from her ears. "Who are these people? They're even more evasive than Clark ever was about– er, never mind."

Jane always had her suspicions when they were younger. The suspicion had increased once they'd started dating. The quick exits? The miraculous recoveries? The lame excuses? For the longest time, she just couldn't pin down exactly what it was that had made Clark Swann so... Clark. It was frustrating.

Her former frustrations with Clark were neck in neck with today's atrocity.

* * *

><p>Erik had left for the local library to email a colleague who'd had previous dealings with these mysterious, faceless S.H.I.E.L.D. people. Jane had gone elsewhere, taking the van, without saying a word and biting down hard on her lower lip. Darcy was lackadaisically meandering around the tiny, dusty town on foot with intentions of finding a payphone.<p>

She had fed the rusty metal slot a quarter. "Man, Jane is totally gonna kill me for this," Darcy thought aloud as she waited. "But she'll have to understand, right?" She repetitively tapped a brown leather boot on the sandy sidewalk. "I mean, the creepishly unexpressive army of Agent Smiths took my freaking Q-Pod!"

* * *

><p><span>AN2: Yeah. I don't know Latin. I just used Google Translate.

Hopefully I'll update soon. Rest assured that this will be finished. The whole thing already has a solid and completely completed skeleton plan. I get distracted easily. Sorry. GGx2 is drawing me back.


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